OOC
by Collegekid2006
Summary: A bump on the head leaves Henry feeling not quite himself...and Shawn's well...let's face it. He's freaked out.
1. Chapter 1

"Dad! It's _Saturday!_" Shawn moaned piteously, trudging up the stairs after his father.

"So?" Henry grunted, pushing the door to Shawn's old room open. The ancient hinge squeaked horribly like nails on a chalkboard.

"So, it's the Sabbath!" Shawn protested, following Henry into the room. "Isn't it supposed to be, like, a day of rest or something?"

"First of all, we're not Jewish," Henry informed him, rolling his eyes as he pushed ahead to the far wall, where there were several cans of paint stacked under the window. "And, secondly, what the heck do you need rest from, anyway, Shawn? Goofing off?"

"Goofing off is hard work!" Shawn insisted.

"Yeah, well…_you're_ the one who insisted on filling your wall with nails when you were a kid." Henry muttered. "So _you're_ the one who's going to fill in the holes before I paint."

"You're painting my room?" Shawn gasped, pretending to be horrified, as if he hadn't noticed that all furniture had been moved to the center of the room and draped with sheets or the paint trays and rollers his father had laid out. "Dad! How could you? I used to _live_ here!"

"You haven't lived here since you were seventeen." Henry reminded him. "And I haven't painted it since you moved out. It needs a fresh coat, Shawn. It's an embarrassment to the rest of the house."

"My room's an _embarrassment?_"

Henry adjusted his paint-spattered baseball cap as he knelt down next to the cans of paint, his back to his son now. "What the hell would _you_ call having walls full of Def Leppard posters?" he demanded. "For God's sake, Shawn, it's 2008!"

"Def Leppard is timeless!" Shawn shot back defensively, gazing fondly up at his walls, which were still adorned with various posters of the band. "Just like Matthew Broderick's boyish charm. Or polyester leisure suits. _And_ the drummer only has one arm! He's an inspiration! How can you put an expiration date on inspiration?"

"You can be inspired." Henry told him, inserting the blade of his pocket knife under the lid of the first can of paint and gently lifting it. "Just get them off my damn walls so I can paint!"

He dropped the lid onto the blue drop cloth that was spread across the carpet and gestured at the corner of the room, where an already open container of spackle was waiting for Shawn. "There's the spackle. Start pulling down posters and filling in the nail holes. I'm going to start taping up the woodwork."

He stood up to get the painter's tape, but as he did, the light hit the paint just right and he stopped dead in his tracks. "Damn it!" he growled, glaring at the paint, as if it could somehow be made aware of the fact that it was pissing him off.

"What?" Shawn asked, stepping alongside him. He looked down at the white paint, but couldn't find anything particularly offensive about it.

It's not like it was insulting his mother or anything…

"Damn Home Depot mislabeled it!" Henry snapped. "It's supposed to be eggshell!"

Shawn blinked down at the white paint, then looked back up at his father, raising an eyebrow. "It's… white," he murmured, completely oblivious to the problem.

"It's cream!" Henry insisted bitterly. "Trust me, Shawn. I think I know the difference between eggshell and cream!"

"Really?" Shawn shot back. "Do you know the difference between normal and obsessive and creepy?"

"It has a beige tint!"

"And the fact that even know that disturbs me to my very core." Shawn rolled his eyes and turned back to the spackle. "You should sue Home Depot. Or maybe just go down there and lecture them. I'm sure you could find some high school kid making seven bucks an hour to yell at. Hell, you could probably reduce him to tears in ten seconds flat if you really tried. I'll bring the stopwatch."

"They're probably all cream," Henry muttered, ignoring his son as he sighed and stood up, pointing at another can of paint by Shawn's feet. "Toss me that one so I can check."

Shawn grabbed it, casually lobbing it at his father without looking back over his shoulder. He released it slightly harder than he meant to, however, and Henry didn't see it coming, as he was still staring angrily down at the cream paint can.

"Dad!" Shawn called a moment too late. The paint can was already flying straight at Henry's head. Henry looked up, just in time to get smacked square in the forehead. The paint can exploded in a burst of white, covering him as he stumbled backwards in surprise, tripping over the cream paint can and falling on his back in a white, wet heap.

"Dad!" Shawn exclaimed, running over to him. "Are you okay? You said to toss it to you!"

Henry didn't respond at first. He was staring blankly up at the ceiling, still in a daze from the blow to the head. He blinked a few times, as if trying to re-join the world of the conscious.

"Are you okay?" Shawn asked again, standing over him now.

Henry blinked up at him once more, trying to place his face.

Shawn mentally braced himself for the impending lecture. Even though he had never actually officially received the Henry Spencer "Don't Bean Your Father With a Paint Can" lecture, he was more than a little certain he could already quote most of it.

But as Henry slowly sat up, groaning and rubbing his head, which was already sporting a sizable goose egg, he didn't seem to be in the mood to lecture.

He wasn't even scowling or cursing his son under his breath.

In fact, he almost seemed to be…smiling.

Shawn couldn't tell through the dripping paint at first, but as his father climbed to his feet and wiped his face off on his sleeve, he slowly became more certain that he wasn't just hallucinating.

His father _was_, in fact, smiling.

More than that, however, every ounce of tension and hostility seemed to have left his body. As he flung the paint off his fingers onto the blue, plastic drop cloth, his shoulders drooped with a relaxed, almost lackadaisical, ease.

"I'm fine," he replied with a slow, lazy drawl, the paint smearing across his forehead as he continued to try to wipe it off his face. "How are you?"

He smiled warmly at Shawn…and not a sarcastic half-smile, either.

A full-blown, genuinely happy-go-lucky, couldn't-be-more-content-with-the-universe smile.

"What?" Shawn asked, not believing for a moment that he was about to get out of this _that_ easily. He already had a dozen witty retorts for everything his knew Henry was going to say…but so far he wasn't cooperating and just saying it.

How was he supposed to retort wittily when his father wasn't lecturing?

"How are _you?_" Henry repeated, resting a gentle, almost loving, hand on his son's shoulder, leaving a white handprint on his shirt. "We never just talk anymore, Shawn. What's going on with _you?_"

Shawn stepped back from his father's touch, his stomach feeling vaguely unsettled as Henry continued to beam at him with fatherly affection.

"Not much…" he replied slowly. "I think I just gave my father a concussion…but other than that…"

Henry laughed, shrugging it off as if it was the most natural thing in the world. "Hey, it was my fault. I told you to toss the can. No biggie."

"No _biggie?_" Shawn snorted. "Dad! You're covered in paint!"

"So?"

"So…" Shawn prompted, waiting for his father to pick up and run with the lecture. "…I was careless…I messed up…I made a mess of everything…"

"So?" Henry shrugged, still smiling warmly.

"So…doesn't that make you want to yell? Or lecture? Or glare?"

"Not really," Henry blinked, looking confused. "Should it?"

"Yes!" Shawn shouted, his eyes wide in horror now. "For God's sake, Dad, two minutes ago you were shouting about eggshells and cream!"

Henry laughed, gently mussing his son's hair as he passed him and walked out the door, leaving a trail of cream-colored footprints across the otherwise spotless carpet in his wake. "Shawn, life's too short to nitpick and obsess over every little thing."

"Since _when?_" Shawn demanded, aghast. "Nitpicking is what you do!"

"Do you feel like cookies and milk?" Henry called over his shoulder, already disappearing down the stairs. "I feel like cookies and milk…"

Shawn ran a finger through his white-streaked hair, watching silently until Henry was out of sight, then pulled out his cell phone and called Gus.

"Gus…remember how I said the body-snatchers were going to invade and you just laughed…? Well…I was right."


	2. Chapter 2

"Has he been like this for long?" Gus whispered, leaning across the kitchen table, eyeing Henry warily.

Henry was on the other side of the kitchen, wearing an apron and pulling a pan of cookies out of the oven. The counter was littered with open bags of flour, sugar and chocolate chips.

"About an hour," Shawn replied through a mouthful of oatmeal and raisins. He took a long swig of milk and swallowed before continuing. "I think he has a concussion."

"Why didn't you take him to the hospital?" Gus demanded.

"Have you tasted these cookies?" Shawn returned, pushing the plate of freshly-baked cookies at his friend. "They're awesome!"

Gus was horrified. "Shawn! You hit your dad in the head with a paint can!" he almost shouted, but somehow managed to catch himself and bring his voice down before Henry heard him across the room. "He needs medical attention!"

"I tried to get him to go to the ER!" Shawn protested, grabbing another cookie off the plate and dunking it in a glass of milk. "But he wouldn't get in the truck! He just…wants to bake cookies! Who am I to argue?"

"Well, we have to do _something!_" Gus hissed. "Shawn, your dad's…happy! Something's wrong!"

"What do you want me to do?" Shawn demanded. "Knock him on the head again and dragged his limp, lifeless body to the truck?"

"There are two of us and only one of him," Gus said, standing up with a grim determination. "We can take him."

"Seriously?" Shawn snorted.

Gus looked at Henry again, who had begun to quietly sing to himself.

Even smiling and wearing an apron, he was terrifying.

Gus sat down and begrudgingly picked up a cookie, still not liking this at all.

"Come on, Gus!" Shawn encouraged cruelly, elbowing his friend. "I thought we could take him."

"Shut up," Gus muttered, taking a bitter bite. "Damn…" he murmured, raising an impressed eyebrow and immediately taking another bite. "Is that nutmeg?"

"I told you," Shawn grinned. "Who knew? My dad bakes a mean cookie! And, let's face it…not many guys can pull off the apron look like that."

"Especially covered in white paint," Gus nodded in agreement, grabbing a handful of cookies off the plate now and pouring himself a glass of milk.

"Actually, it's cream," Shawn corrected him. "Not white. Trust me. I heard all about it."

Henry walked over, grinning broadly as he set another plate on the table in front of them. "Enjoying the cookies, boys?" he asked.

"Ooooh! Chocolate chip!" Shawn grinned, rubbing his hands together and eagerly digging in. "Thanks, Dad!"

"No problem, Kid," Henry grinned, going back to the oven. He grabbed a mixing bowl and poured some flour in, already starting on his new batch.

"Shawn…" Gus whispered again, dropping his own cookie, suddenly not hungry any more. "Isn't this creeping you out at all?"

"Of course it is," Shawn shrugged, polishing off his glass of milk. "My father's nesting! I'm disturbed to my soul! But what am I supposed to do? He won't go to the hospital and he won't stop baking. I'm a helpless victim, Gus! I may as well enjoy this while it lasts."

Gus laughed, an idea suddenly occurring to him. "Dude…what if he starts talking about feelings?"

Shawn gasped in horror, turning pale at the thought. "Oh, God, Gus! He wouldn't! Don't even say that!"

"What?" Gus shrugged innocently, grinning maniacally. "It would be funny!"

"It would not!" Shawn shuddered. "Stop it! You're totally ruining Cookie Day! Just because he's baking up a storm…and just because he actually used that phrase…_twice_…doesn't mean--"

"Are you kidding?" Gus snorted, cutting him off. "It's inevitable now! First comes baking…then feelings."


	3. Chapter 3

"What are we talking about?" Henry asked, smiling warmly as he slid into the seat across from Shawn and Gus.

"Uh…fishing," Shawn told him quickly.

"Fishing?" Henry repeated, his nose wrinkling in obvious distaste. "Why on earth are you talking about fishing?"

Shawn dropped the cookie that was halfway to his mouth, his eye growing wide in shocked horror. "You _love_ fishing!" he exclaimed. "Your only regret in life is that you weren't born with a fishing pole for a hand!"

Henry picked up the cookie that Shawn had dropped and took a thoughtful bite, looking perplexed. "I like fishing?" he murmured, as if searching the recesses of his mind. "But why would I want to kill a poor, defenseless fish?"

"I always assumed you used to get teased by schools of fish when you were a kid," Shawn offered, casting Gus a concerned glance. "Actually, that theory would explain a lot…"

"You don't remember that you like fishing?" Gus asked Henry, returning Shawn's look.

Henry shrugged lightly, wiping his hands off on his apron. "I've never been fishing in my life. Are you kidding me? Why on earth would I want fish guts all over my hands? Yucky!"

"'Yucky'?" Shawn snorted, pushing his chair back from the table. "Okay…the baking was one thing. Those cookies were awesome! But now you're _really_ starting to freak me out!"

Henry blinked in complete bewilderment. "Why am I freaking you out, Shawn? Because I think fish guts are icky?"

"Since when do you think fish guts are icky?" Shawn demanded.

"Since you hit him upside the head with a paint can, apparently." Gus shot back. "I told you to bring him to the hospital!"

"I've never liked fish guts!" Henry insisted, shivering at the very thought. "It gets under your finger nails and you just can't get it out."

"Then why the heck did you try to drag me out in that stupid boat every weekend when I was a kid?" Shawn demanded.

"Did I?" Henry murmured, leaning across the table and placing his hand on Shawn's shoulder.

Shawn recoiled instinctively from the touch, but his father wasn't letting go. Henry squeezed his son's shoulder affectionately, meeting Shawn's eyes warmly. "If I did, Shawn, it's only because I wanted to spend time with you. You're my son."

Shawn looked over at Gus pleadingly, suddenly turning slightly green. "Gus…" he croaked helplessly, but Gus was grinning from ear to ear, enjoying watching his friend squirm uneasily way too much to be any help.

"What?" he laughed, picking up a cookie. "You're his son, Shawn. He wanted to spend time with you. And talk about feelings."

Henry nodded in agreement. "Yeah…feelings."

Shawn and Gus both could already see what was coming next, even before Henry opened his mouth again.

It was all happening in slow motion…just like a car crash in an action movie…

Only way less cool.

"Shawn…" Henry pressed on, smiling gently as he squeezed his son's shoulder again.

"Oh, God, Gus!" Shawn groaned frantically, his eyes widening in terror as he realized there was no way to stop it now. "Make it stop!"

"Hey…" Gus laughed, leaning back in his chair, not about to miss a moment of what was to come. "I'm a helpless victim, Shawn. The least I can do is enjoy it while it lasts."

"Gus!"

But it was too late.

Henry leaned forward, one hand gently touching the back of Shawn's head.

"I love you, Shawn."


	4. Chapter 4

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Shawn turned pale, the cookies in his stomach suddenly threatening to lurch back up as his father squeezed his shoulder again.

Gus' mouth was hanging open, his jaw practically scraping the floor.

For a long moment, no one said anything.

"Dude…" Gus laughed finally, starting to recover from his shock. "He actually _said_ it!"

Shawn looked over at him, his eyes as wide as two extra large pizzas. "Gus!" he croaked, looking like he was about to be sick. "Get me a paint can!"

"You can't hit him again, Shawn!" Gus told him sharply.

"Well, I have to do _something!_" Shawn shouted back. "My dad just told me he loves me!"

Gus rolled his eyes. "Shawn…disregarding how disturbing it is that your reaction to hearing your dad loves you is to bash the man upside the head with a blunt object, he clearly already has a concussion! We have to get him to a hospital!"

"I don't have a concussion." Henry spoke up, blinking in bewilderment as he finally released Shawn's shoulder from his loving death-grip.

"Are you kidding?" Shawn snorted, stepping back. "Dad! You have a second head growing out of your skull!"

Henry gingerly rubbed the sizable goose egg jutting out of his forehead. "I guess I have a little bump…" he conceded. "But that doesn't have anything to do with it. I mean, do I really have to be seriously injured to tell my son how I feel?"

"Yes!" Shawn and Gus exclaimed at the same time.

"Oh." Henry seemed surprised by the virulence of their response. He shrugged it off, however, and went back to the oven, opening the door and peeking inside at the latest batch of cookies. "Well, I meant it, Shawn. I love you."

"Dad!" Shawn groaned, shuddering. "Seriously! I will hit you with another paint can! You're freaking me out!"

"Why is it freaking you out?" Henry demanded softly, closing the oven door again. He looked back at his son, wiping his hands off on his apron. "What the hell did I do to you that you're so afraid of emotions?"

"I'm not afraid of emotions!" Shawn insisted, snorting as if the very idea was ridiculous.

"Well…" Gus cut in, suddenly looking thoughtful. "You do tend to make jokes when things get too serious."

"That's because I'm hilarious!" Shawn crossed his arms defensively. "Not because I'm afraid of feelings! They're _feelings_! Unless they're armed with blasters, they're not that scary!"

"Then why can't you talk about them?" Gus demanded.

"I _can!_"

"Then why do you want to hit me in the head with a paint can when I want to talk about them?" Henry added, coming alongside Gus. They both crossed their arms and stared expectantly at Shawn, who had suddenly found himself outnumbered.

"Yeah, Shawn." Gus agreed. "Why do you want to hit your dad with a paint can just because he loves you? Why can't you just tell him you love him back?"

Shawn stepped back as they closed in on him, suddenly realizing there was no way out of this private Hell. "Actually, I don't think a paint can will do it at this point…" he murmured. "I think I need either garlic or silver bullets."

"You're not going to shoot your dad, Shawn!" Gus cut him off before that thought could progress any further.

Shawn sighed, rolling his eyes. "The bullet is for _me_, Gus."


End file.
